


The DILF of Disneyland

by jeeno2



Series: Reylo Crack [10]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (in which 35-year-old Ben is the Boomer), Crack, F/M, Humor, Miscommunication, Ok Boomer, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/pseuds/jeeno2
Summary: Rey spots single dad Ben Solo in line for a ride at Disney and snaps a pic for DILFs of Disneyland.Ben, a powerful attorney, finds out about the picture from his coworker and vows to find the person responsible.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Reylo Crack [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1507805
Comments: 640
Kudos: 2299
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt from @reylo_prompts on twitter. Believe it or not this is an actual, honest-to-god [Instagram account](https://www.instagram.com/dilfs_of_disneyland/?hl=en/), which I highly recommend.
> 
> Social media is my fifth language so please feel free to “ok, boomer” me in the comments. Because I’ll probably deserve it.

Rey stares at the guy standing in front of her in line for Big Thunder Mountain, unable to look anywhere else even though she _knows_ she is being inappropriate right now.

She supposes she could blame it on the weather. It’s always warm in Anaheim but today it’s almost unseasonably warm, with highs in the mid-80s even though it’s November. Whenever Rey gets overheated and hasn’t drunk enough water she gets lightheaded. And sometimes, when she is overheated and lightheaded, making good decisions can be beyond her.

She’s definitely not making good decisions right now, she thinks to herself, as she continues to stare at this guy’s incredible ass. He’s wearing snug-fitting jeans that accentuate his thick thighs like a fucking _dream_ , and a t-shirt with a picture of Woody from “Toy Story” on it that’s stretched so tight across his ridiculously broad chest it gives Rey feelings she’s pretty sure Disney never intended when they made that movie.

He’s standing in front of her with his kid—or, _a_ kid, anyway—a blonde little boy who looks about seven or eight. It’s cliché—she _knows_ it’s cliché—but something about a guy being at Disneyland by himself with a kid is just… _hot._ Especially when the guy himself is objectively hot to begin with.

This kid has the biggest collection of Disney pins on his lanyard that Rey has ever seen and is eating out of one of those souvenir buckets of cotton candy that cost fifteen dollars. Rey can’t help but wonder if Mr. Hot Dad is one of _those_ dads. A “Disneyland Dad,” as Finn used to call them—someone who shows up at Mom’s house once every few months to whisk you off somewhere fun and expensive so he can feel better about not being around the rest of the time. 

Disneyland dad or not, this guy certainly doesn’t look happy to be here. Just the opposite. As he and the blonde kid wait in the FastPass line he keeps pulling out his phone and glaring at it like it’s caused him grievous bodily harm, then taps out something on the screen before shoving it back into the pocket of his jeans. 

About twenty minutes into the wait the kid lets out a sigh. “How much longer, Daddy?” The little boy’s face is sticky and pink with the remnants of his cotton candy, but the mess does nothing to hide his impatient expression. 

“The fucking FastPass people _said_ we should have been on the ride ten minutes ago,” Mr. Hot Dad mutters, in the deepest voice Rey has ever heard. She didn’t realize voices even _came_ that deep. He sounds like an old-fashioned vinyl record played at three-quarters speed.

And, if she’s being honest, hearing a voice in such a low register does something unspeakable to _her_ lower register. Even here, standing in line for the Seven Dwarfs ride at the happiest place on earth.

She clenches her thighs together and tries to look somewhere else. But she’s standing in line, it’s boring, and she doesn’t quite manage it.

“Mommy says you aren’t supposed to say ‘ _fuck’_ around me anymore,” the kid points out.

His dad groans. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I forgot.” The guy looks sheepish, and then mutters something under his breath Rey can’t quite make out that might be _fucking Bazine_ —but she can’t be certain. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, clearly bored and agitated, too. 

He absent-mindedly runs a hand—one of the biggest fucking hands Rey has ever seen—through his shaggy, dark hair.

Rey is interrupted from her inappropriate staring and eavesdropping by her own phone buzzing in the front pocket of her shorts. 

She pulls it out of her pocket and sees it’s a text from Rose.

_Where are you?_

_You got in that line half an hour ago._

Even though Big Thunder Mountain is a pretty tame ride—at least as far as roller coasters go—Rey hadn’t been able to convince Rose to come on it with her. Not even when she reminded her friend that this is the first time she’s been to Disney since the group home she lived in as a teenager took them all here over spring break. She’d hoped Finn would go on it with her, but the second Rose bowed out he decided to stick close to her instead. 

Not that Rey can blame him. And not that she’s mad at either of them, either. The two of them are adorable together, in the way new couples always are.

If she were here with a boyfriend she’d probably want to spend time with him instead of ogling perfect strangers and going on roller coasters, too.

Rey takes another quick look at Mr. Hot Dad—yep; still hot—and then texts Rose back.

**I’m still in line**

**There might be something wrong with the ride**

**FastPasses usually get you right on.**

_Huh._

_Yeah that’s weird._

_Well I’m getting food with Finn_

_Meet us by Jungle Cruise when you’re done_

**Got it**

Rey makes to put her phone back in her pocket—

But then the guy standing in front of her reaches out with one of his giant hands and tousles his son’s blonde hair. It’s an innocent, probably subconscious gesture; he’s looking at his phone the entire time. But something about the way his son leans in a little closer to him when he does it—and the small smile his dad gives him, afterwards—makes her stomach do a funny little flip.

It’s just so touching. So warm. So unlike any interaction she ever had with an adult when she was this boy’s age. 

On impulse, Rey surreptitiously snaps a picture of the two of them. A father and son, enjoying their day together at Disneyland. 

Maybe taking a picture of them like this is a little creepy. Maybe she shouldn’t have done it. But it’s not like she’s going to _do_ anything with the picture. And it isn’t as though this guy will ever find out about it.

Sighing, and telling herself that what she’s done is probably all right, Rey shoves her phone back into her pocket and waits for the line to move.

* * *

After the ride is over, Rey finds Finn and Rose sharing an extra large dole whip on a bench outside the Jungle Cruise.

“I can’t believe the Jungle Cruise still exists,” Rey says, looking past them at the ride. The wait for it is over an hour without a FastPass. “It’s 2019. And it’s, like—the most racist thing ever.”

Rose shrugs. “Nostalgia is a powerful thing I guess.” She holds out a cup for Rey. “We got you a dole whip.” 

Rey takes the dessert gratefully and sits down beside her friends on the bench. She lifts the spoon to her mouth and takes a big, eager bite. 

It’s just as ridiculously, pineapple-sweet as it was ten years ago, and the taste of it conjures up memories of one of the happier days of her adolescence. But Rey is glad she is here today with her new friends, making new, even happier memories with them. 

After all, she is happier now, with Finn and Rose, than she ever was as a child.

“There was a hot guy in line in front of me,” Rey says around a mouthful of ice cream. “You would have liked him. Both of you would have.”

“Oh?” Finn smirks at her. “Did you get his number?”

Rey rolls her eyes. “He was in line with his kid.”

“So?” Finn asks, bluntly. “Is he also here with his partner or spouse?”

“Well, no,” Rey admits. “Or at least, he wasn’t in line with them. Also I think he might be divorced—or, like, separated, from whoever the kid’s other parent is—based on the bits of conversation I overheard.”

“And yet you didn’t get his number,” Finn repeats.

Rey stares at him. “Look. He’s probably ten years older than me,” Rey says. “And he has a _kid_.” She pulls her phone from her pocket. “I did take a picture of him though.” Maybe if Rose and Finn see the guy and how sweet he looked with his son they’ll understand how disgusting and inappropriate it would have been for her to hit on him.

She pulls the picture up on her phone and turns the display so her friends can see it.

Rose’s eyes go wide. Finn lets out a low whistle.

“I haven’t dated men since college,” Finn says. “But I’d consider going back to it for this one.”

Rose shoots him an outraged look and smacks his shoulder.

“Ow!” Finn says, rubbing his arm. “I said I’d _consider_ it. Not that I’d actually _do_ it.”

“You’re an idiot,” Rose says. But she and Finn are grinning at each other already and _fuck_ , if the two of them aren’t the cutest thing ever. 

“I am an idiot,” Finn concedes. “But I’m _your_ idiot.” 

“Good.” Rose nods at him, then turns to Rey. “You know, you should really submit this picture to ‘ _DILFs of Disneyland_.’”

Rey frowns at her. “What is ‘ _DILFs of Disneyland_?’”

“Yeah,” Finn says, looking suspicious. “I’d like to know that too.”

Rose stands up, and adopts the wide stance Rey guesses she must use whenever she’s in front of her classroom of third graders.

“‘ _DILFs of Disneyland’_ is an Instagram account that’s exactly what it says on the tin.” Rose pulls out her phone and taps the screen a few times. “In other words, it’s a collection of pictures of hot dads, with their kids, at Disneyland. I don’t know if the people who run the account take them all. Probably people submit them. Because, like—there’s a lot.” 

She hands Rey her phone.

“Holy shit,” Rey says. She scrolls up to the top of the page. “Rose--they have over four hundred thousand followers!”

“They run a good program,” Rose says, appreciatively. “I think they’re pretty selective, too, because the only dads I’ve ever seen on there are legit DILFs. They deserve every one of their followers, in my opinion.” 

“How often have you been to this Instagram?” Finn asks, eyes narrowed.

“Less often than you’ve annoyed me in the past two hours,” Rose counters.

But Rey is only half-listening to her friends. She starts scrolling through the Instagram stories, and through the hundreds upon hundreds of pictures of hot dads with their kids, fascinated by both the pictures themselves and by the lewd comments people have left underneath them.

_Unf, that’s one hell of a DILF all right_

_Gimme some of that stroller meat_

_Some breads just never go bad!_

She sees pictures of dads with their babies. She sees pictures of dads with teenagers, dads on roller coasters, dads hugging Goofy, and dads having lunch. And every single one of these dads is hotter than the dad that came before him.

But none of them are as hot as the guy from the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train line. If there were a Hot Dad Olympics, he would be coming home with the gold.

“You should definitely send in your picture, Rey.” 

Rose’s voice, and her laughter, cut into Rey’s fascinated reverie.

Rey shakes her head. “Oh, Rose. I can’t,” she says. “That would be…” 

She trails off, and bites her lip.

“What?” 

“That would be a _terrible_ thing to do,” Rey says. “Not to mention a horrible invasion of this guy’s privacy.”

“It isn’t, though,” Rose says. “For one thing, it’s a very sweet picture of him and his son. No one is naked, or even topless. No one is engaging in any sexual acts”

“Rose,” Rey says, warningly.

“And for another thing,” Rose continues, as if Rey hadn’t said anything at all, “he’ll never find out.” Rose folds her arms across her chest definitively. “It’s a victimless crime. Actually, it’s not a crime at all. You submitting this picture to _DILFs of Disneyland_ would actually be a _public service_.”

Finn nods. “She’s right. You’d be depriving all five hundred thousand followers of that Instagram account of a certifiable DILF.” 

Rey stares at the pair of them, something occuring to her for the first time. “DILF… stands for what I think it stands for, right?”

Her friends exchange a look. 

“I guess that depends on what you think _DILF_ stands for,” Rose says, cryptically.

“Um,” Rey says, feeling her face grow warm. “Well… I guess I thought it maybe stood for… Dad I’d Like To…” 

She can’t finish the sentence.

“ _Dad I’d Like to Fuck_ ,” Rose says. “Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly what it means.”

Rey peers down at the picture of the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train guy. If she’s being honest with herself… this guy is one hundred percent, _absolutely_ a dad she’d like to fuck. With a body and a scowl like that, who _wouldn’t_ want to fuck this guy?

“Are you sure he’ll never find this?” Rey asks.

“I mean, I guess it’s possible he follows this Instagram,” Rose muses. “But from the looks of him I somehow doubt it.”

Rey doubts it too. From the angry way he kept glaring at his phone Rey got the distinct impression that he hates phones. And possibly every technological advancement that’s happened since 2009. 

“But like—he won’t get tagged on Instagram, or wherever, when the picture posts, will he?” Rey asks. “He won’t get any kind of notification?”

“He will never know,” Rose assures her. She puts her hand on Rey’s. “Rey. He will _never_ find out. I promise.”

Rey looks back down at the picture and makes up her mind.

“Showing this picture to people _would_ be a public service,” Rey muses.

“Sure fucking would,” Rose agrees.

“Will you show me how it works?” Rey asks. “I’m not on Instagram much.”

“I would be delighted to,” Rose says. Rey doesn’t doubt that for a second. “Here. Give me your phone. I’ll do it for you.” 

Rey hands it over. “I should be logged into Instagram already. I just barely know how it works.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Rose says. She taps at Rey’s screen a few times, biting her lip. After a few moments she hands the phone back to Rey. “There! All done.”

“How will I know if they’ve accepted the picture?” Rey tucks her phone back into the pocket of her shorts. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“To make things faster, I just posted it directly to your account,” Rose says. “And I added the hashtags #dilfsofdisneyland and #dadsofdisneyland so the right people will be able to find it.”

Rey’s eyes go wide. “But then people I know will see it.”

“You have three Instagram followers, Rey. Two of them are me and Finn.”

She has a point there.

“And I have no idea how you’ll know if people have seen it,” Rose adds. “Probably you’ll get some notifications once people see it and start freaking out? But I guess time will tell.”

Rey supposes Rose is right about that. 

* * *

The first sign that something has gone horribly wrong comes about two hours later, when the three of them are standing in line together for Pirates of the Carribean.

“Hold on a minute,” Rey mutters. Her phone has started buzzing nonstop—the way it did that time about a year ago when she tweeted a picture of her dog BB wearing a cone of shame and @DogRates picked it up. “My phone is freaking out.” 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket—and her stomach sinks.

The number _7431_ hovers at the top left corner of her Instagram icon. And while Rey isn’t the most social media-savvy person in the world, she knows enough to know that _7431_ is a very, very large number of notifications.

And it’s growing. Rey watches, horrified, as the number climbs past 7500, past 7600, and then past 7700. And then she knows, with the sudden clarity that always comes with realizing you have made a terrible mistake, that the picture she took today is in the process of going viral.

“Uh, Rose?” Rey taps her friend on the shoulder. “Can you come look at this? I’m afraid to open my Instagram app.”

Rose turns to face her, eyebrow raised. “Why?”

Rey shows her her phone.

Rose gasps. “You’ve gone viral!” 

Rey’s phone is buzzing so much it’s practically bouncing out of her hand. The number at the top-left corner of the Instagram icon now reads _8932._

“What do I do?” Rey asks, panicked. This was the worst idea in the world. Why does she ever listen to Rose?

“What do you mean, what do you do?” Rose asks. 

“I mean… I never intended that picture to get this much attention.” Rey closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “It wasn’t mine to take and it wasn’t mine to share.”

“It’s fine,” Rose says. “Unless he’s on Instagram he’ll never find out.”

“How do you know that?” Rey’s voice is rising in pitch, and she’s speaking so loudly she’s beginning to draw attention from the other people standing in line. But she can’t help it. She stares down at her phone, vibrating in her hand like it’s possessed. “If stuff gets too big on Instagram doesn’t BuzzFeed or whatever pick it up?”

Rose looks dubious. “I can’t imagine a reputable outfit like BuzzFeed would ever pick up anything intended for ‘ _DILFs of Disneyland_.”

But Rey isn’t so sure.

“Look,” Rose says, putting a hand on her arm. “At this point, it’s out of your hands. Why don’t you just shut your phone off and focus on having fun here today.”

Rey does as Rose suggests but she can’t shut off the part of her brain that’s telling her this is one of the stupidest things she’s ever done

* * *

Much later that night, a high-ranking partner at a law firm across town is furious over having found a picture of himself and his son in a BuzzFeed article called, of all things, “The DILF of Disneyland.”

His assistant, Mitaka, had been nervous as hell when he sent it to him. With good reason. After seeing it, this high-ranking partner had been so furious he threw a binder full of forms across the room.

Then, on his own, he looked up _DILF_ on Urban Dictionary—and threw his printer.

“Mitaka!” the lawyer shouts. “I need you to order my dinner for me. Now.” Now that he knows exactly what a _DILF_ is, he knows it’s going to be a very late night. He won’t have time to grab something himself.

That matter settled, he opens up a new browser window and makes his plans. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is little in this world that Ben Solo hates as much as he hates social media.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there is about a 50-75% chance of the chapter count of this fic increasing to 4. Oopsies ?
> 
> Also, please note: I spent a grand total of about 2 minutes on legal research for this fic and I'm sure it shows. ;)

There is little in this world that Ben Solo hates as much as he hates social media.

It’s a societal cancer, really—ensnaring the small-minded as it rips apart the ties that have, for generations, connected people and communities with one another. It destroys attention spans, ruins holidays, and—as he very recently learned—allows idiots to take pictures of people trying to spend quality time at Disneyland with their kids, slap a crass acronym on it, and broadcast it to half the goddamn planet.

He has to admit the picture itself isn’t bad. True, he’s wearing a stupid t-shirt, and true, it was taken at fucking Disneyland, a place Ben hates only marginally less than he hates social media. But it’s the sort of picture his mother would like, showing him and Charlie in the kind of tender moment that’s become increasingly rare since the divorce became final.

Fuck. For all he knows, his mother has already seen it.

Ben has spent much of the time since Mitaka told him about this picture’s existence trying to figure out who the fuck might have taken it. Ben is good with faces—it’s part of why he’s so good with juries—and he has some vague recollections of the people in line with them for that particular ride. The picture was obviously taken from behind them—the photographer was _clearly_ enamored with his butt; his ass is basically the focal point of the entire picture—but the shot is a little blurry and it isn’t clear exactly how far behind them the photographer stood.

It couldn’t have been the person immediately behind them. Ben would know if it had been her. She was in line by herself for reasons that escape him (surely someone like her would be at Disneyland with a friends, or a boyfriend?). She had shoulder-length brown hair and was wearing a white tank top, shorts that showed off her pert little ass like something out of one of his teenaged wet dreams, and one of the sunniest expressions Ben has ever seen. 

She was… well. She was pretty. _More than_ pretty, if Ben is being honest. But of course, she was glued to her phone almost the entire time they were standing in line, probably doing SnapDog or Tumbler or some other fucking social media platform Ben does everything in his power to avoid.

In fact, she was too glued to her phone to even notice his feeble attempts at making eye contact with her throughout their interminable wait. Which, in retrospect, is just as well. With as messy as his life is right now the last thing a girl like her needs is the unwanted attention of some creepy man who’s got to be at least ten years her senior.

In any case, no: the pretty girl he’s been thinking far too much about in the twelve hours since he saw her, did _not_ take this picture. It isn’t possible.

The only upside to this nightmare situation is the _name_ of the photographer was easy enough to find. BuzzFeed did it for him, actually. It was taken by a Rey Niima, an engineering graduate student at Chandrila University. It’s not clear whether _Rey_ is a male or a female name, but for Ben’s purposes it doesn’t matter.

Five minutes spent in the Chandrila University directory and Ben was able to find Rey Niima’s year in school, phone number, and campus email address.

And now, he will email this Rey Niima (thank _god_ he won’t have to resort to contacting them on the twitter) and insist they take the photo down. 

And they will do it. 

No laws may have been broken here, and Ben knows full well there isn’t a judge in this country that would award him damages or even require Rey Niima to delete anything if they don’t want to. But Ben will _not_ be made a laughing stock in his own law firm. Nor will he allow his son to be associated with such crass slang.

Ben Solo is good at intimidating people via email. It’s a big part of what he does for a living, after all. He figures it’ll be easy enough to get exactly what he wants.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

November 24, 2019; 2:01 a.m.

From: Benjamin C. Solo [[ bcsolo@snalps.com ](mailto:bcsolo@snalps.com)]

To: Rey J. Niima [[ rjniima@chandrila.edu ](mailto:rjniima@chandrila.edu)]

Re: Instagram photo

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Rey Niima:

It has recently come to my attention that you have posted a picture of me and my son to the Instagram that you took without my knowledge or consent. I am still in the process of researching what, precisely, the term ‘DILF’ means, though I am led to believe it is very vulgar. In the meantime, I am preparing to protect my rights—and my son’s rights—by any legal means necessary.

Please regard this email as a de facto Cease and Desist letter. If you do not take the photo in question down from the ‘DILFs of Disneyland’ Instagram account within twenty-four hours of receipt of this email I will be bringing a lawsuit against you for defamation and invasion of privacy.

Sincerely,

Benjamin C. Solo, Esq.

Snoke & Palpatine

Attorneys at Law

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* * *

Rey reads the email from Benjamin C. Solo, Esq., three times, just to make sure her eyes are not playing tricks on her—and that the guy whose picture she took at Disneyland yesterday actually _is_ threatening to sue her.

When she finally stops hyperventilating and is able to stop and think for a second she grabs her phone and texts Rose.

_He saw it_

_He fucking saw it_

Rose’s reply comes a few minutes later.

**Who saw what?**

_ROSE_

_THE PICRURE_

_THE HOT GUY_

_THE DILF_

_DISNEYALDN_

**OH**

**Oh shit**

**Really?**

_YES ERALLY_

**How?**

_Well i don’t know for sure but that picture has about 23508235 bazillion notifications now and so probably that’s how_

_And not just on Instagram_

_I’m also getting notifications on twitter_

_Also facebook_

_it’s gone viral_

**Oh SHIT**

_You alreadY SAID THAt_

_He’s apparently a lawyer?_

_He seems to think i posted it to the actual DILF of Disneyland account_

_And he called it “the Instagram”_

_Which is like_

_very ‘ok, boomer’ of him_

_But it doesn’t matter because he just threatened to sue me if I don’t take it down and that’s the only part that really stuck out to me_

**He can’t sue you over this**

_How do you know?_

**I mean**

**It doesn’t seem like he should be able to sue you?**

_That doesn’t really help me_

**I mean**

**I took a political science class last semester**

**We kind of covered situations like this**

_You DID NOT_

**Ok**

**Fine**

**We did not.**

**But it just doesn’t seem fair that he should be able to sue you**

**It’s a cute picture!**

Rey pauses, and opens her pictures to the one she took yesterday of Benjamin C. Solo and his son at Disneyland. She takes in his dark hair, the scowl—and the little boy leaning in closer to the owner of that dark hair and scowl.

His dad.

Rose is right—it _is_ a cute picture.

But Benjamin C. Solo sure seems pissed. And while Rey’s entire understanding of the American legal system would fit inside a single episode of _Law and Order_ she doubts very much that a picture being cute is a solid legal defense to anything.

_I gotta write this guy back Rose_

_Even if he doesn’t have any real grounds to sue me i gotta write him back_

_What if he actually_ does _sue me?_

**Tell him you think he’s hot and that you meant it as a compliment**

**Oh! And get his number maybe**

**This is a meet-cute if i’ve ever heard of one**

Rey’s phone buzzes with more texts from Rose but she ignores them. She’s heard enough from her the past twenty-four hours to last a lifetime. 

She rereads the email from Benjamin C. Solo a fourth time as she ponders how to respond. 

God, he is so mad at her.

She looks back at the picture of him one more time and… well. She _really_ should not find the mental image of _that_ tall, surly drink of water being angry with her as hot as she does. 

Shaking her head to try and clear it (she’s just been threatened with a lawsuit; now is the time to focus, not the time to be horny) she begins to write her reply.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

November 24, 2019; 9:02 a.m.

From: Rey J. Niima [[ rjniima@chandrila.edu ](mailto:rjniima@chandrila.edu)]

To: Benjamin C. Solo [bcsolo@snalps.com]

re: re: Instagram photo

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Mr. Solo:

After the number of social media notifications I’ve gotten I guess I’m not surprised you’ve seen the picture. I’m not sure how you got my contact information, though I’m guessing you found it the way any of us ever find anything on the internet.

My friend tells me you don’t have any grounds to sue me. I don’t know if that’s true or not—I’m a grad student in electrical engineering, not a lawyer; and she’s a grad student in English, not a lawyer—but either way I totally get that you’re upset with me right now. And I guess I can understand why, though in truth, it’s an adorable picture. I promise I only took it in the first place because when I was standing behind you in line for Big Thunder Mountain I thought the two of you looked so cute together. It’s clear your son loves you very much and that you had a nice day together at Disneyland.

I also promise you my friend and I only posted that picture online because we both think you are a very attractive man. There’s just something about a guy at Disneyland, there with his kid, that makes him… well. Even hotter than he’d be otherwise. The fact that my phone has basically been unusable due to all my social media apps blowing up suggests my friend and I are not alone in liking that picture (or in thinking you are hot).

So, I guess what I’m really trying to say is… I think I’m going to leave the picture up. It is literally all over the internet so my deleting it will accomplish nothing. It’s out there. You and your son are out there. If you want to sue me, go for it, though I didn’t identify you in the picture and my intentions were pure, so I don’t think it’s fair for you to do it. Also, I don’t have any money so there’s really nothing you’d be able to take from me even if you did take me to court.

Seriously. I meant it as a compliment, and you should take it as one.

Sincerely,

Rey Niima

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* * *

Rey pauses a moment, chewing on her thumbnail as she rereads her email.

She isn’t sure whether admitting she thinks he’s hot in the same email where she’s asking him not to sue her is the best idea. But then again, on the list of bad decisions she’s made in the past day, this one probably wouldn’t even rank in the top five. Also, if he _does_ sue her, maybe she’d be able to use this email as evidence or whatever that she never meant him any harm. Surely the judge would find that compelling?

Hell—for all she knows, the judge might even agree with her that he’s hot. Maybe the judge will even be like, _hey! I saw this picture on Twitter and retweeted it because it was so cute and Benjamin C. Solo, Esq., was so hot. Case dismissed._

Who can say?

Her mind made up, Rey hits _send_ , and tells herself she’s going to stop thinking about it.

* * *

She doesn’t stop thinking about it.

Part of this is because her phone is still blowing up with notifications. (Among all the other things Rose was wrong about, she was _dead_ wrong about BuzzFeed not finding this picture. Just her luck.). 

The rest of why she doesn’t stop thinking about is because she gets another email from Benjamin Solo when she’s in physics class, just a few hours after she writes him back.

Rey opens the email when her professor’s back is turned, unable to wait until the lecture is over to see what it says. 

It’s… a kind of long email. It even has a numbered list. Her stomach sinks. She guesses that if the email said something like— _oh sure, you can keep the picture up and I won’t sue you_ , _all in good fun, tally-ho—_ it would not be this long.

She better read this thing right away.

She turns to Finn, sitting beside her and engrossed in his daily crossword puzzle. 

“Finn,” she whispers. “I gotta step out for a sec. Can you take notes for me?”

Finn frowns at her. “What for?”

“It’s important.”

“You never miss Ackbar’s class.”

“I know, Finn, but…” Rey bites her lip, and decides that if Rose knows everything Finn will eventually know everything, too. If he doesn’t already. “It’s the Disneyland guy. He’s threatening to sue me.”

“He is? Why?” 

“Why do you think?” Rey snaps. “Can you take notes for me or not?”

“I mean… sure,” he says. He shrugs. “I can’t promise they’ll be any good though. Normally I borrow _your_ notes.”

But Rey doesn’t hear him, because she’s already halfway out the door, her phone clutched tightly in her hand.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

November 24, 2019; 1:15 p.m.

From: Benjamin C. Solo [[ bcsolo@snalps.com ](mailto:bcsolo@snalps.com)]

To: Rey J. Niima [[ rjniima@chandrila.edu ](mailto:rjniima@chandrila.edu)]

re: re: re: Instagram photo

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Rey:

In the second paragraph of your last email to me you stated: “I’m a grad student in electrical engineering, not a lawyer.” Telling me you are not a lawyer was unnecessary and, frankly, redundant. It is abundantly clear that you haven’t a single shred of understanding as to what gives rise to either a defamation or an invasion of privacy action.

The facts are as follows:

  1. I am a private citizen;
  2. My son is a private citizen;
  3. I did not consent either to having this picture taken or to it being posted on social media; and
  4. Millions of people around the world now associate me with the acronym “DILF,” which—if both Mitaka and Urban Dictionary are to be believed—is a lewd, crass term. My career depends on my reputation, and being so widely labeled a DILF has already caused people—colleagues; adversaries; the ladies who make the lunches in the cafeteria—to laugh at me, both to my face and behind my back. The potential cost to my reputation and to my livelihood cannot be calculated.



You allege that you find me “an attractive man.” I have made a careful note of that, and I admit that I am flattered. But that is not a defense to a defamation action. It never has been and it never will be. 

I reiterate my request that you take the picture down. Even Mitaka, my assistant, laughs at me now, and that will _not_ stand. This will be my final request before taking legal action.

Sincerely,

Benjamin C. Solo, Esq.

Snoke & Palpatine

Attorneys at Law

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* * *

Rey reads Benjamin Solo’s email over to herself in the hallway outside her classroom twice before heading back in.

It’s clear that this guy can’t take either a compliment or a joke.

Perhaps more importantly, though—he also clearly doesn’t understand how the internet works if he thinks her taking the picture down after BuzzFeed got it is going to do anything at all.

Maybe they should meet in person to clear all this up. Tone is hard to convey over email, and maybe if they meet in person she’ll be able to really convince him that it was all meant in good fun, he should take that stick out of his ass, and they can put it all behind them.

(She refuses to think how thrilled Rose will be that she’s inviting this guy out to coffee. She’s done thinking about Rose maybe forever.)

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

November 24, 2019; 1:58 p.m.

From: Rey J. Niima [[ rjniima@chandrila.edu ](mailto:rjniima@chandrila.edu)]

To: Benjamin C. Solo [bcsolo@snalps.com]

re: re: re: re: Instagram photo

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Mr. Solo:

I’m wondering if perhaps we could meet in person to work something out. The fact that you aren’t getting that at this point, my taking the picture down will have zero impact on people seeing this picture or calling you a DILF makes me think perhaps email isn’t an effective way for us to have this conversation.

There’s a coffee shop near my house that’s open late. If this sounds good to you let me know and I’ll give you the address. Really, I think we can hash all this out much better in person.

Sincerely,

Rey Niima

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* * *

Rey prepares to have to wait a long time before hearing back from him. But his reply comes before Ackbar’s lecture is even over.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

November 24, 2019; 2:05 p.m.

From: Benjamin C. Solo [[ bcsolo@snalps.com ](mailto:bcsolo@snalps.com)]

To: [ rjniima@chandrila.edu ](mailto:rjniima@chandrila.edu)

Cc: Mitaka Dopheld [PoorMitty@snalps.com]

re: re: re: re: Instagram photo

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Rey:

I typically hold settlement negotiations in my office, not at coffee shops. Then again, I’m usually representing someone else in these negotiations, not myself.

I am free this Thursday afternoon between 3:30 and 4:30 p.m., though I doubt I’ll need that much time to convince you to take the photo down. You know I can always bring you to court and take whatever I want. 

Please send Mitaka (cc’d) the name of the coffee shop and he’ll get it on my calendar. 

Sincerely,

Benjamin C. Solo, Esq.

Snoke & Palpatine

Attorneys at Law

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* * *

Much later that night, once Ben Solo is back in his apartment and is getting ready for bed, his mind wanders back to the girl who was standing behind them in line for Big Thunder Mountain.

God, she was hot, in that little white tank top of hers that showed off her tits and those short shorts that made him think entirely unDisneyish things right in front of his kid.

He closes his eyes and groans. Bazine left almost two years ago. Will he _ever_ grow a pair and finally work up the nerve to approach a woman he finds intriguing?

He stares at himself in the mirror and takes in his haggard appearance. Hair, shaggy from running his hands through it anxiously all day; pale complexion from too many hours spent staring at a computer screen; eyes that are bloodshot from too many consecutive nights of too little sleep.

He sighs, and closes his eyes again.

Bazine probably had the right of things. And really, the girl from Disneyland is almost certainly better off for having ignored his pathetic non-advances in favor of staring at her phone.

Well… at least he has this meeting with Rey Niima on Thursday to look forward to. 

He chuckles a little to himself. Because truly, after he gets through with them, Rey Niima is gonna have no idea what hit them. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've upped the chapter count by one. Forgive me?
> 
> The final chapter is partially written but I likely won't be able to finish it until after TRoS premieres. The good news, though, is that TRoS is ALMOST HERE! OMG i'm so not ready.

Rose eyes Rey from head to toe with poorly concealed disapproval.

“Is that what you’re wearing on your date?” 

“First of all, it’s not a date,” Rey says, leaning in closer to the bathroom mirror to examine her teeth.

“Sure, Jan,” Rose quips.

“It’s  _ not _ ,” Rey insists. “I’m only meeting with him so I can explain all the reasons why he shouldn’t sue me.” Rey adjusts her suit jacket—the only one she owns—and smooths her hands down the front of her skirt. “I might also be explaining how social media and the internet works. Though I’m not sure about that yet.”

Rose folds her arms in front of her chest and leans against the doorframe of Rey’s bathroom.

“So let me get this straight,” Rose says. “You’re meeting this guy for coffee—scratch that, this  _ incredibly hot _ guy for coffee—and you don’t plan to hit on him at all.”

“That’s right,” Rey lies.

“You’re not going to even ask for his number?”

“Nope.”

“Or tell him you’ve spent the better part of the past week googling him and finding every single picture that has ever been posted of him anywhere online.”

Rey can feel her face growing hot.

“I did no such thing,” Rey mutters.

“Oh, stop.” To Rey’s great irritation Rose begins to laugh. “You’ve been so consumed by thoughts of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Surly you haven’t paid attention in class at all this week.”

Rey winces at the not entirely incorrect accusation. 

“You and Finn tell each other everything, I take it,” she mutters.

“Pretty much,” Rose says happily. “Especially when we’re gossiping about you.”

“Listen,” Rey says, her irritation growing. “I’m meeting with him an hour. He’s an  _ attorney _ . I have to keep it professional, okay? I can’t tell him that… that I…” 

“That you think he’s a DILF?” Rose supplies helpfully.

“Um. Something like that.” Rey can feel her face getting redder by the second. “Rose. He  _ hates _ me. He wants to  _ sue _ me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” Rose says. “Nobody hates you. You’re like—a literal ray of sunshine.”

“ _ This _ guy hates me.” Rey thinks back on the threatening tone that laced his emails to her. “He hates me for sure. And to be honest I probably deserve it for posting that thing.”

What Rey  _ doesn’t  _ tell Rose is how many times she’s fantasized about Benjamin Solo, very important attorney, wearing the suit he’s wearing in his law firm profile, telling her what a bad girl she’s been and all the ways he’s going to have to punish her. Or about last night, when she brought herself off with just her fingers, imagining  _ him  _ getting her off with that luscious mouth of his.

She... has a problem. A big one. But she might actually be in trouble with the law right now and she refuses to think about any of the rest of it. She  _ has _ to keep her wits about her. There will be time to be horny later—when she’s back in the comfort of her own bedroom, by herself, after this meeting is over.

“How will he know it’s you?” Rose asks. “Or do you just plan to jump him as soon as he walks in the door?”

Rey rolls her eyes. “I told him what I’d be wearing and gave him a brief physical description.”

“Ooh. Kinky.”

“Shut up, Rose,” Rey mutters. She turns back to the mirror. It won’t do to have lipstick on her teeth for this. She’s already sure to make a fool of herself as it is. “And go away. I’m busy.”

Rose smirks at her. “I bet you are.”

* * *

Rey gets to  _ Maz’s  _ thirty minutes before the time she and Benjamin Solo are set to meet. She can’t help herself. She’s far more nervous than she let on to Rose. And when she’s nervous, she tends to get places with too much time to spare.

She uses the extra time to order, and drink, a double espresso. Which seemed like a good idea when it first occurred to her but now feels like one of the worst ideas she’s ever had. The nerves that have been roiling in the pit of her stomach ever since the picture of Benjamin Solo and his son first went viral have been worse than usual in the hours leading up to this meeting, and the extra double jolt of caffeine floating through her bloodstream only makes her feel even jumpier.

He shows up at the coffee shop exactly at three, just as they’d arranged. The coffee shop is right near campus, and he sticks out like a sore thumb in his fancy suit and leather briefcase. He scans the room from the doorway—probably looking for the  _ twenty-six year old woman, about five foot seven, shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a grey suit _ she described in her last email to him. 

He doesn’t see her right away at the table she found in the back, and she’s so filled with nervous energy she’s about to get up out of her chair and accost him—just like Rose had said she was going to do. 

But before she has a chance to do it, his eyes finally land on her. 

And then, a series of very strange things happens. 

As he stares at her, Benjamin Solo’s eyes go very wide—like he’s seen something surprising, or has just received a moderate electric shock. Or both.

The briefcase he’d been clutching in his right hand slips free of his grasp and falls with a loud  _ thunk _ to  _ Maz _ ’s dirty tiled floor. Its silver clasp pops open and papers fly haphazardly out of it, scattering in all directions. And while Rey’s impression of this guy—until now, anyway— had been that he’s the kind of person whose entire fucking  _ day _ would be ruined if a bunch of his papers got messed up, from the dazed, terrified look on his face right now Rey can’t help but wonder if he even notices it’s happened.

Confused, and more than a little alarmed—has he had a stroke, or something? He’s not  _ that _ much older than her—Rey pushes back from her chair and begins making her way over to where Benjamin Solo stands rooted to the spot in the middle of  _ Maz’s _ .

By the time she’s made it halfway to him he seems to remember himself. His eyes refocus, and he blinks at her several times, shaking his head like he’s trying very hard to clear it.

“Hi,” Rey says, tentatively, when she reaches him. He doesn’t return the greeting, or even acknowledge that she’s here. Instead, he mutters something under his breath that Rey can’t quite make out before bending at the waist and hastily gathering up his papers with those fucking dinner plate-sized hands of his.

As he’s shuffling everything back inside his briefcase, Rey’s eyes rove over his backside. She can’t help herself. His ass, after all, is  _ incredible _ . It’s a big part of the reason she’s in this mess to begin with after all. It’s like this suit was specifically tailored for him by someone who not only  _ knew _ he had an incredible ass, but wanted to do the world a service by designing something that would do it lots of favors. 

And so even though she  _ knows _ Benjamin Solo hates her, Rey can’t help but let her eyes linger on his body for several seconds too long as he straightens up again and adjusts his tie.

When at last he makes eye contact with her, his pale cheeks are flushed and his eyes are overbright.

He clears his throat.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m... Ben Solo.” His voice sounds different from the last time Rey heard it—a bit strained, maybe; is it shaking? No; she must be mistaken—but it’s still the deepest voice Rey has ever heard. It’s low timbre turns her insides to jelly just as much today, in the middle of this coffeeshop _ , _ as it did at Disneyland.

Rey bites the inside of her cheek to stay focused—and refuses to think about how her panties are already starting to get a little damp, just from seeing him in that suit of his and hearing his fucking voice.

_ Keep it together, Niima. _

“I’m Rey,” she says, in the most businesslike tone she can manage. She extends her hand towards him in a friendly gesture. But instead of shaking it, Ben Solo gapes at her hand like it’s something that could kill him. A boa constrictor about to bite his head off, or something. “Rey Niima.” 

He blinks at her hand a few times before reaching out very slowly and finally clasping her hand in his. 

She sucks in a sharp breath at the contact.

_ Fuck _ .

She already knew his hands were big, of course. She saw it firsthand in line the other day, when he ran them through his hair in frustration as they waited for the ride. But it’s one thing to see a man’s hands from a few feet away and notice they’re large, and a totally different thing to have your hand fucking  _ enveloped _ in a hand as big as a catcher’s mitt but way, way warmer. And softer. His hand is ridiculously soft, actually—softer than hers by a mile, with none of the callouses on his palm that she’s earned over the years working part time in Unkar’s shop. 

He squeezes her hand gently before pumping it up and down several times in a firm handshake. She can see the way the muscles in his chest ripple beneath his starched white shirt with the subtle movements—and Rey shivers, for reasons having nothing to do with how high Maz keeps the air conditioning turned up in here.

“Shall we… um.” Ben averts his eyes, and starts scanning the room. Probably for a table, Rey guesses. Is he...  _ blushing _ ? He  _ is _ , she realizes with shock. His cheeks and the tips of his ears have started going pink, and he isn’t shaking her hand anymore but he hasn’t let go of it, either. Rey stares down at their hands, and swallows thickly when she sees,  _ feels _ , his hand trembling around hers.

This—all of this—is not at all how she thought this meeting would go. She assumed he’d be  _ screaming _ at her by this point. Not dropping his briefcase at the sight of her and holding her hand.

She... really should pull her hand free of his grasp. She should pull her hand free of his grasp, turn around, and head back to the table where she’d been sitting when he arrived.

But she does neither of these things. He’s looking at her now—directly; for the first time since he arrived—with so much intensity in his gaze it makes her palms sweat and her heart start galloping in her chest. 

“You know, Rey,” Ben says, after another long moment passes. “It’s... pretty loud here if we mean to conduct negotiations.”

Rey blinks at him, even more confused.

“Oh,” she says. He still hasn’t let go of her hand. She swallows again, and stares down at where they are touching. She could look at his hands all day, she realizes. “Yeah. I guess it  _ is _ pretty loud in here.”

“You know where there’s a better place to talk?” He drops her hand, then, and starts fiddling around with his phone. 

Rey refuses to think about the small pang of loss she feels now that they’re not touching anymore. “Where? Um… your office?”

He glances up at her briefly before looking back down at his phone. He types ridiculously slowly with those massive thumbs of his.  _ He really  _ is _ a boomer _ , she thinks, amused.  _ A boomer trapped inside the hottest thirty-five-year-old body I have ever seen. _

“No,” he says. “DaVinci’s.”

Rey’s eyes nearly pop out of her head.

“Wait.  _ DaVinci’s _ ?”

“Mm.”

“DaVinci’s, as in…” Rey mouth falls open, her mind going a thousand miles an hour. Rey has only heard of DaVinci’s because her friend Poe’s parents—both anesthesiologists—took him there the last time they were in town. Apparently even the waiters there wear suits. “DaVinci’s… as in, one-hundred-dollars-per-entree DaVinci’s?” 

“Oh,” Ben Solo says mildly, pocketing his phone. “I mean… maybe? I’ve never noticed.”

Rey stares at him, dumbfounded. “I can’t afford to eat at DaVinci’s.”

He shakes his head. “On me.”

“But,” Rey says, trying frantically to keep up. What is  _ happening _ here? “I thought you wanted to have this meeting so you could scare me, or scream at me, or threaten to sue me. Or all three of those things. But instead you want to negotiate over an expensive dinner that you’ll be paying for?”

At that, Ben bites his plump lower lip. Rey’s eyes are drawn irresistibly to the way he sucks it into his mouth a little as he does it. To the little indentations his teeth make in the plush flesh. Never in her life has Rey more desperately wanted to sink her  _ own _ teeth into someone’s lips.

She wonders, before she can stop herself, if his are as soft as they look.

He nods, running a hand through his hair. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah. That’s right. Dinner.”

Rey shakes her head. This makes absolutely no sense. But then again, she’s no lawyer. She has no real idea of how any of these things are done.

And who is she to turn down a free dinner at a nice restaurant?

“Fine with me,” she says, shrugging. “Just as long as we’re clear—I’m not paying for this.”

“You won’t,” Ben Solo says. “I promise.”

* * *

Of all the unethical things Ben has done as an attorney, this—taking a gorgeous girl ten years his junior out to an expensive restaurant under the auspices of engaging in settlement negotiations—probably tops the list.

DaVinci’s is in a part of town that Ben seldom visits now that he’s free of Bazine. It’s near Beverly Hills, in one of those ridiculous neighborhoods where the people have almost as much plastic in their faces as those ridiculous Funko Pops Charlie likes collecting.

When they arrive at the restaurant, waiters in white suit jackets open the doors for them and show them to a table near the very back. If they think it’s weird that he’s asking to see dinner menus at four in the afternoon, at least they have the good sense not to say anything.

And if Rey has any clue that he’s been hard as a fucking rock ever since she climbed into the passenger seat of his BMW twenty-five minutes ago…. well. Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything about that, either.

His only saving grace right now is she’s wearing a cheap suit she must have found at Ann Taylor or something, possibly from clearance rack, rather than the t-shirt and cut-off shorts he’s been jerking off to like a fucking teenager all week long. God—if she’d shown up to the coffee shop wearing  _ that _ outfit he likely would have come in his pants right on the spot.

As it is, he very nearly  _ did _ come in his pants when she started speaking to him in that English accent of hers. He’s always had a thing for English accents, and… 

She’s walking ahead of him now, towards their table, her pert little ass wiggling a little inside her skirt with every step. He simply cannot  _ believe _ the girl he’s been fantasizing about all week is the same person who posted his picture with Charlie on the Instagram. And tagged it with  _ DILF _ . 

What are the odds, seriously?

_ DILF _ , he now knows—thanks to Mitaka and an Urban Dictionary user who goes by  _ letmefangirlawhile– _ stands for  _ Dad I’d Like to Fuck _ . He’s been  _ furious _ about that all week, and he showed up to that coffee shop with a bunch of nonsense paperwork, totally prepared to  _ do something _ about it and threaten the living bejesus out of Rey Niima, whoever they might be, and—

And, well. _ Rey Niima _ , the person he’s been furious with all week long, is the girl who was standing right behind him in line for Big Fucking Thunder Mountain. She explicitly told him over email that she and her friend think he’s hot. She’s implied to somewhere in the vicinity of one-point-seven billion internet users that she’d like to  _ fuck _ him, if Mitaka and Urban Dictionary are to be believed.

And despite all his varied plans from before, now he can’t seem to focus on lawsuits or negotiations or settlements or shouting, because all he can think about right now is whether it’s possible to die from a dick being too hard for too many consecutive minutes. Because if it  _ is _ possible to die from a dick being too hard for too long, it’s entirely possible he’s currently on death’s door.

Rey seems utterly oblivious to the agony he’s currently in. Thank god for small mercies. She sits down in the chair across from him and picks up the wine menu, not even sparing him a glance. She opens it, and her eyebrows immediately shoot up to her hairline when she notices the prices. It’s so innocent and adorable, her shock and surprise, and—

God, Ben is hopeless. Utterly, utterly hopeless.

At length, she sets her menu to the side and fixes him with an even stare.

“So,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the table in front of her. Her fingers are long and thin. He wonders, fleetingly, what they would look like wrapped around his cock. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ “How do negotiations usually start? I’ll admit I’ve never done this before. How does this work?”

Ben winces. He can’t go through with this. He really can’t. She shouldn’t have posted that picture and he’s  _ still _ mad as hell that it went viral, but what he is doing is  _ also _ inappropriate, emailing her from his work account and using his work email signature when he  _ knows  _ he has no case. And then he brought her here in the middle of the day even though he isn’t totally certain why—it isn’t like he had any sort of  _ plan _ or anything when he drove them here—and…

He clears his throat. 

_ Keep it together, Solo.  _

“Well,” he begins—with difficulty; most of the blood flow usually reserved for brain activity is currently being diverted to points farther south. “Usually, one party opens with a starting position.”

“You’ve already done that. Right?” Rey glares at him. “You told me to take down the picture. That’s your starting position.”

She raises an eyebrow at him defiantly and… he  _ really _ should not find that as sexy as he does. 

He looks down at his hands. “Right. Yes. That’s… that’s right..”

“But I’ve told you that will accomplish literally nothing at this point.”

“You have.”

“And yet you say I have to take it down anyway or else you’ll sue me. Or... tell my landlord on me. Or… or something.” 

Ben looks up at her. Her tone, her posture—everything about her indicates how irritated she is with him right now. 

Not that he can really blame her. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but finds that he has no idea what to say in response to any of what she just said to him besides:

“Yeah.”

At that, Rey throws her hands up in the air and lets out an exasperated noise that’s so loud, all two of the restaurants’ other patrons—a couple of ladies at least twenty years older than his mother—turn to stare at them.

“Fine,” Rey says. “I’ll delete it.” She leans back in her chair and lets out a long sigh. “I probably should never have posted it in the first place. Especially since your kid is in the photo. I realize that.”

Is that… contrition he hears in her voice?

“Really?” He can’t help but be a little surprised. He thought he’d have to shout at her to get to this point. He hasn’t shouted at all. He’s hardly even  _ spoken _ to her.

“Really,” she says. “If you promise not to sue me, I’ll take it down. But you have to believe me when I tell you I had absolutely no idea it would go viral.” She laughs a little, nervously, shaking her head. He likes the sound of her laugh. He knows that he shouldn’t; but he does.

“I will.” He tries to smile; but it’s just been so long since he’s really made a habit of smiling, and he isn’t totally certain he’s got it right.

She peers at him. “You will, what?”

“I will… promise not to sue you.” He glances down at the menu in front of him. Duck à l’orange; $72. He pushes the thing to the side. Why the fuck did he bring her  _ here _ ? No one comes here at four on a Thursday. “If you take that picture down I’ll never contact you again. If... that’s what you want.”

Rey stares at him, wearing an expression Ben can’t quite read. That rattles him more than almost anything else that’s happened this afternoon. He’s built a successful career on reading people as easily as he reads the morning news. But with her, right now…

He’s got nothing.

“What are you thinking?” he blurts out, then cringes inwardly. In a negotiation, admitting that the other party has caught you by surprise—or has the upper hand—is a rookie mistake. 

Perhaps sensing the truth of this, she only smirks at him.

“What I’m  _ thinking _ , Benjamin C. Solo, is that your pants have got to be feeling pretty uncomfortable right now.”

Ben’s eyes nearly fall out of his head.

“I… beg your pardon?” he splutters. 

She glances downward, meaningfully, towards his lap, before once again meeting his eyes. Her smirk grows, her eyes taking on a devilish gleam. All of a sudden, Ben feels like he’s right back on Big Thunder Mountain: completely out of his element, overheated, and seconds away from throwing up his lunch.

Rey leans forward across the table, licks her lips, and stage whispers: “You’ve been straining against the front of those expensive slacks of yours for the past hour, sir.”

At Rey’s words—at that irreverent  _ sir _ —several completely unexpected things happen in rapid succession.

Apparently delighted to be the subject of conversation, his erection throbs,  _ hard _ , against the seam of his trousers. And it swells even larger—something that, five minutes ago, Ben would have thought completely impossible. 

His hand—of its own volition—reaches across the table and grasps one of hers. It’s smaller than his hand, and so warm, and while Ben Solo is usually very good at maintaining complete control over his body and all its extremities, he apparently is a helpless mess in front of Rey Niima.

And then finally, to add insult to injury, he fucking  _ whimpers _ —something he hasn’t done since he made out with his prom date in the backseat of his parents’ car back in 2002.

Rey looks down at his hand, which is so much larger than hers it covers it completely.

“I meant it, you know.”

Ben’s hand is shaking. “You meant… you meant what?”

“That you’re a DILF.”

Ben whimpers again—a wretched, pitiful sound.

“You… you do?” He can’t believe it. He just can’t believe that this… this  _ vision _ would want to have anything to do with him, let alone think that he’s—

“Did you ever figure out what a  _ DILF _ is, by the way?” Her tone is sincere, not mocking. Ben feels himself blush to the roots of his hair all the same.

He nods, all his formidable powers of speech having left him.

“Good,” she says. She leans across the table even further, and whispers, right in his ear: “This place is… pretty bad for negotiations, don’t you think? Want to get out of here?”

Ben can feel her words against his cheek, her breath sweet and warm. The sound of her voice, her words—all of it goes right to his groin.

He nods again, eyes screwed tightly shut.

“Good,” she says again, squeezing his hand. “Good.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy TRoS week everyone! Have some garbage porn.

He’s on her before he’s even gotten the door to his apartment open, his lips skimming hungrily along the column of her throat as he fumbles with his keys.

Not that Rey’s complaining. The drive from the restaurant only took twenty minutes but it felt much longer than that, her panties getting wetter and wetter the more she thought about all the things she wants to do with this man.

And all the things she wants him to do to her.

After what feels like an eternity Ben finally gets his door open—and then all but shoves her inside his apartment. He kicks the door shut with his foot, and then he’s on her again, his large hands seeming to touch her everywhere, all at once. 

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against the sensitive skin of her throat. He’s found a spot there he likes, right where her neck meets her shoulder, and he worries at it distractingly with his lips and his tongue. She shivers as he nibbles at it, then sucks on it gently with his mouth. They’ve only just gotten started, touching each other—but it already feels like she’s about to fall apart at the seams. 

“What do you mean, what do I want?” she asks, voice a little too breathy. She thought she was being pretty obvious about what she wants. She’s the one who proposed they leave the restaurant before ordering anything.  _ She’s _ the one who palmed his dick over his slacks the second they got inside his car. 

Ben’s eyes are dark,  _ hungry _ , as they regard her. “I mean… I think I know what you want in… in broad terms.” He swallows, his cheeks flushed. Rey watches as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, only barely resisting the urge to lick it. Suck it into her mouth. “But beyond those… broad terms, I guess I don’t know what you’re expecting. Or what you want.” 

“You don’t?”

“No.” He shakes his head and runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Believe me, Rey—I had  _ no idea _ this was going to happen today.” He chuckles nervously. “I thought I was going to have to spend an hour or so shouting at you before getting you to do what I wanted. I never  _ dreamed _ that...”

He trails off, then looks at her helplessly.

Rey leans forward and kisses him, tenderly, on the mouth. He whimpers at the contact; his hands convulse a little where they rest on her hips, his fingertips digging a little too hard into her sides. His lips are every bit as soft as they look, and it occurs to Rey that she could easily get used to this. To kissing Ben. 

She wonders, idly, if she’ll get the opportunity.

When Rey finally pulls back, the look on Ben’s face is so lost, so puzzled, she decides to take pity on him.

“When we were emailing each other,” Rey begins. “Before you knew who I was. The way… the way you talked to me—”

“Oh, god,” Ben groans, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He leans forward and buries his face in Rey’s shoulder. Her arms go up around him instinctively; they barely wrap all the way around him. Fuck; he is  _ massive _ . “I know, I was an asshole. I was rude, I was condescending. I was… I was being a  _ lawyer _ , and—”

“I… kind of  _ liked _ it, Ben.”

Ben lifts his head and blinks at her. He looks stunned. 

“You… wait.  _ What _ ?”

Rey can feel herself start to flush under his gaze. “I can’t really explain it,” she mumbles. “It doesn’t really make any sense. You used this…  _ authoritative _ tone with me. You were lecturing me and being a total fucking dick… and telling me how… bad I was. And...”

“And you liked that?” Ben doesn’t sound disgusted. He just sounds... confused. She can almost see the wheels in his head turning as he tries to make sense of what she’s telling him. 

Rey shrugs. She can tell she’s blushing to the roots of her hair right now. “Yeah. A little, anyway. It was... kind of hot.”

His eyes go wide. “It was kind of hot,” he repeats, slowly.

“Yeah,” she says. She turns to face him fully, and her breath catches at the look on his face. His mouth hangs slightly ajar, and his dark eyes make him look like he wants to  _ devour _ her. “To think I’d made this super important, older law firm partner all mad at me. It was… yeah. It was kind of hot.” She bites her lip, and does not fail to notice how Ben’s eyes fall to her mouth. “I... touched myself sometimes, in my bedroom, imagining what it would be like to have you tell me I was a bad girl in person.”

Ben groans, and bites his own lip. It’s abundantly clear from the shell-shocked look on his face that whatever he expected her to ask him for tonight, this wasn’t it.

But then he grabs her again,  _ hard, _ and pulls her flush against him. She can feel his cock—at least as hard as it was when she palmed him outside the restaurant—pressing urgently against her belly. 

Even if he had not expected her to want this tonight, it could not be clearer that he is  _ into it _ .

He licks his lips as his eyes rove hungrily over her body.

“You... want me to tell you you’re a bad girl, Rey?” His voice is like gravel, and even deeper than usual. There’s something in it—something dark, almost sinister, and full of promise—that makes something inside Rey’s gut twist and her thighs clench. “Is that what you want?”

Rey shivers in spite of herself. 

She nods.

He puts his hands firmly, purposefully, on either side of her waist, big and strong and  _ warm _ , and her eyelids droop as he backs her slowly down the hallway. She dimly registers the pictures lining the walls—artfully taken shots of mountains and lakes; framed school photos of a child that must be his son—and then all of a sudden, he’s got her in his bedroom.

“Lie down,” he tells her, nodding at the bed. His voice shakes a little—the only indication that this role is not something he puts on often in the bedroom. But his hands are perfectly steady as he removes his suit jacket and carefully hangs it up in the closet behind him, and his eyes are blazing with intensity when he turns back around to look at her. 

Rey wastes no time in doing what he’s asked her to do, rushing over to the bed so quickly she nearly trips in her haste to get there.

“You made my week a living nightmare, Rey Niima,” he tells her. His voice is rough again, steady, as he makes a show of slowly undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. His forearms are corded with muscle, and Rey shivers, thinking of what the rest of him must look like beneath that shirt. How muscular he must be. How strong. 

“I did?” she asks.

“You did.” His voice is cold. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. At work, when I should have been focusing on my clients. At home, when I should have been sleeping.” He moves closer to the bed and regards her, pupils blown fat and wide with desire. “Take off your clothes, Rey. I want to see you.”

She hesitates, but only for a moment.

“Rey,” he says, voice dripping with impatience. “I think I’m entitled to  _ see _ you after how terribly you behaved this week.”

Rey whimpers, and her shaking hands fly to the button and zipper at the back of her skirt. She shimmies out of it—and then out of her underwear too, for good measure. She cringes when she feels how wet they already are as they slide down her trembling legs.

“Good,” Ben says. He nods approvingly. “That’s good, Rey.”

Without another word, he gets down on his knees and yanks Rey, by the ankles, to the edge of his bed. She can feel his breathing, hot and shaky, against her drenched core. She grabs the back of his head, trying to pull his face closer. But he only  _ tsks _ her, pulling free from her grip.

“Patience,” he tells her. “I’ll give you what you want. But not yet.”

Slowly, he spreads her folds, and presses a gentle kiss to the top of her mound. He hums appreciatively against her flesh, and she  _ keens _ with how desperately she wants him to move his mouth just a little bit lower, to where her clit is swollen and needy for him.

His shifts a little, and then his finger teasingly circles her opening, slowly, lazily, tracing through her wetness before looping back up and stopping just short of where she so desperately needs his touch.

“So wet,” he muses, his voice full of wonder. “You are so wet and so  _ tight _ , Rey. All for me. Perfect.” He presses another kiss to her body, this time to the inside of her thigh, then checks her face for a reaction. But she’s beyond performance now. Every word, every touch, sends shivers of sensation rocketing down her spine, melting her brain and causing her cunt to clench, almost uncomfortably, around nothing. 

“Are you certain this is what you want, Rey?” It’s Ben’s voice, this time. His real voice. She lifts her head from the pillow, and looks at him out of her fog of lust. She sees the expression on his face she saw earlier, in the restaurant. Uncertain. Wanting to please.

She nods. “Yes.”

He nods back at her, once, and then again—and then the mask he’s been wearing ever since taking her to his bedroom slides back into place.

“I can’t wait to fuck you here,” he tells her, circling her opening, his voice once again like sandpaper on stone. He slips first one finger, and then another, inside her, and she can feel  _ everything _ —the way the already fluttering walls of her cunt grip his thick fingers, the way he crooks them  _ just so _ before he begins roughly thrusting them in and out of her body. 

She already feels so full, nearly to bursting, just from  _ this _ . She has no idea how she’s going to take his cock, later. 

At the thought of his cock, so thick and heavy beneath her palm earlier, a series of quiet moans fill the room. Rey can’t tell if they’re hers or his. 

“That outfit you wore the other day,” Ben goes on, leaning closer, his mouth now so close to the apex of her thighs she can feel his hot breath on her cunt. She arches her back reflexively, tilts her hips upwards in search of contact, letting out an involuntary moan. His breath catches, stutters against her skin. It’s like being burned alive from the inside out, being so close to his mouth and not having it on her. “It was  _ indecent _ , Rey. I was there with  _ my son _ . Do you have any idea what that outfit did to me there? What it’s done to me since?”

Rey whimpers, and wriggles her hips even closer to his face, desperate and needing more.

“Answer me,” he says flatly. He pulls minutely back. “Answer me, Rey.”

“I… what?” Rey splutters. His fingers have stopped fucking her, and then he withdraws them altogether, resting them on her hip. She whines at the expectant, impatient look on his face—he needs to keep  _ fucking _ her, touching her; she is  _ desperate _ to come—but she knows that she asked him to do this to her, and with great effort she stills her movements. Tries to keep herself under control. 

“I… no,” she continues. Her heart is pounding; it feels like it’s about to burst from her ribcage. “No, I don’t know what… what my outfit has done to you..”

“You don’t know,  _ what _ ?”

She blinks up at him. He is breathing at least as heavily as she is, and he’s started palming the front of his painfully tented slacks. What they’re doing right now is clearly bringing him just as close to the brink as it’s bringing her.

“I don’t know,  _ sir _ ,” she pants. 

Ben groans out loud at the sound of the word  _ sir  _ on her lips _. _ His fingers fuck roughly back into her, and he begins clumsily thumbing at her clit with absolutely no finesse. But it doesn’t matter. She cries out, bucking up into his hand like an animal, as she dimly registers that his other hand is undoing his belt buckle, the button and zipper of his slacks. 

He’s getting ready to fuck her. He’s pulling his pants down his hips, and he’s getting ready to  _ fuck _ her. She can feel her mind dissolving with the knowledge of it. His fingers in her cunt and her thumb on her clit are the only things keeping her from flying to pieces. 

“Do you think you deserve to come, Rey?” His voice is shaking again. His control is slipping. Somewhere, in the part of Rey’s brain that is still capable of rational thought, she realizes this won’t last much longer. “Do you deserve to come after what you put me through this week?”

“I....”

“I jerked off every single night this week, Rey. Thinking of you. In those shorts. That fucking tank top.” He shakes his head, his thumb ghosting back and forth over her clit. Her eyes are beginning to cross, her toes curling in the high heeled shoes she never took off. The coil of desire in the pit of her belly winds tighter, and tighter, with every pass of his thumb.

“I… touched myself too,” she confesses.

At her words Ben grunts. And then he swears under his breath as he stops touching her clit. “I jerked off twice in one night, sometimes. All I could think of was... bending you over my desk... and fucking you... right there.”

“Ben…”

“Do you deserve to  _ come _ , Rey?” he asks her again. He’s flicking at her clit again—erratically, thoughtlessly, lazily—and every nerve ending in Rey’s body is burning with desire and an almost painful need for release.

“ _ No,” _ she grits out. Her hips cant upwards, towards his fingers, of their own volition. He pushes her back down with his free hand. The noise she makes in response to his rebuff isn’t even  _ human _ .

“No,  _ what?” _

“No, sir,” she whines. “No, sir—I… I don’t deserve to come.”

“You don’t,” Ben agrees. But then he’s shoving his pants, his boxers, down his hips— 

And then, all at once—like a light switching off—his mask slips again. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ , Rey. You’re so… 

The next thing Rey knows, he’s climbing on top of her, nudging her knees apart with shaking hands. 

“Please,” he begs her, all artifice gone now. “Oh,  _ fuck _ . Please. Let me fuck you, Rey. I… I’m going to—”

She lifts her head and looks up at him. His dark eyes are bulging with desperation as he grips his cock tightly in one fist. She groans at the sight of it—huge, even in his massive hand. 

She whimpers, unable to look away from it, from him, her mind unable to think of  _ anything _ but what that’s going to feel like inside her.

He chokes out a small laugh, and then he’s nudging her folds apart with the tip of his cock, and—

It pushes all the breath from her body, the feel of his cock slamming home. He is  _ so big _ , everywhere, and there is no room for anything else as his body and his cock pin her to the mattress beneath him. She feels helpless, completely immobile. Completely at his mercy. 

She knows he feels it too when he gasps hotly against her neck, fighting for control.

“Move, Ben,” she begs him. “ _ Please _ .”

And so he does, with a hoarse, animal cry Rey can feel all the way down to her toes. He grabs her bare ass and roughly slams her body to his on every thrust, his fingers digging so hard into her bare flesh she’s sure to have bruises, after. They were in too much of a hurry to take off her suit jacket, or his shirt, but as he moves inside her,  _ uses _ her, she’s desperate to feel every part of his body flush against hers. Her breasts jiggle inside her bra as he fucks her; the sensation of her hardened nipples brushing up against the thin cotton is maddening, makes her want nothing more than for him to rip off the rest of her clothes and touch her  _ everywhere _

“You feel so…  _ fucking _ good,” he pants. “Please tell me you’re close.” Gone is all pretense that he is in charge, that he is going to deny her her pleasure until she does penance for misbehaving. This is the real Ben now, fucking her, close to his own release but wanting to make certain she’s had hers too. 

“My clit,” she grinds out. “Ben. I need—”

Without another word, Ben’s hand snakes down between their bodies and finds her bundle of nerves that’s thrumming and throbbing with need. He thumbs at it—once, twice, and again—as his hips piston into her with increasing speed. 

“Come for me, Rey,” he instructs her, his voice gone stern again—

Her mind whites out unexpectedly on a silent scream as he continues to fuck her and fuck her and  _ fuck her _ into the mattress, her spine liquifying as the blinding pleasure tears through her. Her body flutters and pulses with release around his cock, and he gives her three more hard, punishing thrusts before going rigid and still above her.

They lie like that, half-dressed, his body a heavy yet comforting weight above her, for what feels like a very long time.

And then: “This was... not how I anticipated how this negotiation would go,” he mumbles. But she can feel his smile, pressed gently against her cheek. “But I don’t mind.”

* * *

“Do you really like me that way?” he asks, sometime later. At some point they lost the rest of their clothes, and now they’re lying in his bed, her head resting on his chest, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her body. 

“Do I like you what way?”

“You know,” Ben says. His eyes are still closed, but based on his tone Rey suspects if they were open he’d be rolling them. “Do you like me when I act like a total asshole.”

“Oh.” Rey pauses, thinking. “I mean, maybe not all the time?”

At that, Ben turns his head a little to look at her. “Not all the time?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I mean, maybe next time, I could boss  _ you _ around a little, instead.” She rolls on top of him, so that her bare breasts are pressing into his chest. Already his breathing is starting to get ragged again, despite the events of the very recent past. She smirks at him. “Maybe next time, I could show you how to use social media.”

Ben bites his lip, but his eyes are laughing, amused. She feels him twitch, hard and insistently, against her thigh.

“I… think I’d like that,” he whispers, hoarse. “I think I’d like that a lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t decide if this needs an epilogue or not... but for now, it’s complete. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on twitter at [jeenonamit](https://twitter.com/jeenonamit/)!  
> 


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